


Talented Tongue

by kaotiskplatonisk



Series: The Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Dorks [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Earth's Mightiest Dorks, First Kiss Since 1945, French Language, Humor, Like a Week Prior, M/M, Nothing Hurts, Pre-Canon, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Tony Stark Is Just One Big SNAFU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaotiskplatonisk/pseuds/kaotiskplatonisk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As was his way, Tony promptly forgot the entire conversation, drowned himself in a mixture of scotch and cosmopolitan cocktails, and spent the next nineteen-ish hours tucked away in his workshop like a hobbit in his hobbit hole.<br/>Which, by way of that ruthless bitch temporal progress, meant he was exactly an hour and twelve minutes late for his study… date.<br/>Study date."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talented Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> AKA 'If Natasha wasn't Steve's first kiss since 1945, who was?'  
> I was curious about that line, and also about how Steve learned French (aside from the French guy in the Howling Commandos, because fuck canon), when I remembered that in Iron Man 2, Tony is seen speaking to Yanko's guard in- lo and behold- French. Thus.  
> I'm so sorry if I've mangled my French, if you find any issues with it, go ahead and leave a comment, I'll get right on that.  
> Set a week prior to TWS, includes a teaser for the very beginning (but no spoilers). Cheers!  
> Muse-ic: In for the Kooks (La Roux/The Kooks mashup)  
> (UPDATE: Now with 100% more accurate French! Thank you so much, Shuufleur!)

He was going to need a scotch after this, Tony decided when his forehead hit the tabletop with a muted thump. Like, the biggest scotch ever made. Gallons of scotch. A literal ocean of scotch.

He wasn't going to engage, nope, not him. Maybe Coulson would recant this ridiculous request and leave him the fuck alone if he just kept up the silent treatment, maybe it was all just a horrible, horrible nightmare and he'd wake up any second if he just kept his mouth-

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

Whelp. There goes that.

"Mister Stark, this is my serious face. I'd like you to memorize my serious face. I have a feeling you're going to be on the receiving end of my serious face quite often."

"Fuck you, Phil."

"If we could come back to the issue at hand."

"No. No, I'm rejecting this issue. Really, it's a non-issue, this is me, in denial of this issue. Not happening. Why does he even need to learn French?"

"Thirty-six hours ago an Algerian mercenary named Batroc escaped from his prison cell, and is now somewhere unknown with a large band of supporters waiting for his return. Since he's incredibly talented in combat and tactics, and a self-proclaimed enemy of SHIELD, we're taking this threat rather seriously. It won't require you to spend more time with him than you already do n-"

Tony tipped his head up, just fractionally to ensure his killing glare toward Coulson was delivered. The smug bastard had his forearms laid across the meeting table, fingers entwined, back straight, a folder propped open in front of him and held in place by a pen resting in its spinal crease.

"Hey, now, see, it's not about being around him. We got over that in, like, month two. Try and keep up, Coulson," Tony ignored the trenchant and frankly terrifying glitter in the agent's eyes, straightening up in his chair with a wriggle to get the bruised numbness out of his shoulders. Long, long day. Need a long, long drink.

"It's just, well. French? You want me to teach him French? Why doesn't one of your linguist lackeys handle it? Fuck, I could download Duolingo onto his phone, there, boom, problem solved. Technology is a fucking miracle, can I go now?"

"He specifically requested you."

Tony gaped, then struggled to recomposed himself. No no, billionaire playboy geniuses don't gape, you'll catch flies, Stark, get it together. You fight Krakens of the deep on a daily basis, this is not a big deal. Nope.

...Specifically requested him?

Coulson kept his unswervable, blank-faced composure.

"What the fuck? Seriously, I want to know why. How does he even know I speak French?"

"He read the Yanko report, Tony, it really shouldn't be all that surprising. You smooth-talked your way into the Monaco racetrack, and then past Ivan's security guards- in French. And, when Dummy backfires you have a habit of switching languages while you swear. Natasha was quite impressed last time, you reached- what?- eighteen languages, and four dialects of Pakistani? Your Urdu is a bit rusty, by the way."

"I'll keep it in mind," Tony drawls, dry wit almost absent as the gears in his mind kept churning.

"But I mean, me? Why not Natasha? Hell, Clint knows French, you know French, why am I the guy he requests?"

Coulson's lips bow in a conservative approximation of a smirk.

"Personally, I think Captain Rogers wants to keep as far away from SHIELD on this as possible."

"Thought he worked for you. What, don't want to list a ninety year old popsicle on payroll?" And yes, ouch, that little barb still stung. Steve keeping a summer job with Super-Spy Central in-between Avenging (that was totally a verb), taking sparring lessons with Clint and Natasha, seeing his fighting style assimilate, adapt to the dirty hand-to-hand combat patented to SHIELD, it was painful. They'd given him a new uniform, navy and blue-grey, said it was for covert work. Red white and blue was a little too flashy for infiltration. But Tony saw through that bullshit clear as day, and he hated it. Navy and grey were SHIELD colors. They were putting a wool blanket on a wolf and calling him a sheep.

"He works for us on commission, but he still doesn't trust SHIELD as far as he can throw us."

"Knowing Cap, that's pretty damn far."

Coulson's scalpel-sharp glare was response enough. Tony slung an arm over the back of his chair, adopting standard 'arrogant douchebag' position to hide the bubbling anger in his gut. He hated this, hated Cap for pulling him into this, hated SHIELD for taking a damn good soldier and trying to metamorphose him into a spy. Covert wasn't Steve's style, he was a terrible liar, and the fact that SHIELD was trying to change that made him especially pissed.

Tony ran a hand down his face and across his jaw.

"You're not gonna take no for an answer, are you."

"You can try, certainly, but having an unhappy SHIELD and Captain America bitching you out about this isn't my definition of a party."

Tony snorts derisively.

"He's like, two floors away from me. I see him literally every morning. Why am I getting this from you?"

Really, he didn't mean for it to come out that scathing, but it was sort of integral to his nature to be condescending and ever-so-slightly haughty. So, of course, the words tumbled out in the most condescending, haughty way possible. Awesome. Coulson merely cocked an eyebrow, the rest of him as illegible as always. This guy could play poker with the Slender Man. And win.

Tony reminded himself to stop making stupid creepypasta references, really, he wasn't twelve.

"Yes, that'd be helpful." Phil conceded, knuckles flexing as his entwined fingers squeezed.

Also, no more thinking aloud.

"Okay. Alright, you want me to teach him French, I'll make him fluent in a week, tops. Still serious about that whole Duolingo thing, though."

"No. Just no."

"Fiiiine."

"You start tomorrow at seventeen-hundred."

* * *

As was his way, Tony promptly forgot the entire conversation, drowned himself in a mixture of scotch and cosmopolitan cocktails, and spent the next nineteen-ish hours tucked away in his workshop like a hobbit in his hobbit hole.

Which, by way of that ruthless bitch temporal progress, meant he was exactly an hour and twelve minutes late for his study… date.

Study date. With Steve. No his mouth did not just go dry.

"Sir, kep'n ruderr 'asz 'nterr th' werrshop."

Tony flipped his mask up, shutting off the blow torch dangling from one hand and eyeing the weld line of the two plates he'd been soldering together. He stuck the head of a screw into his mouth as he readjusted the two metal planes and spoke around the obstruction.

"Wha'?"

"I said, sir, Captain Rogers has entered the workshop."

The blow torch clattered to the floor, drawing out a flinch from Tony as it met the concrete. The workshop was Tony's Den of Solitude, and, well, Territory of the Neurotic Sentient Robots. Venturing past those glass doors was something that required serious balls, or Pepper's nerves of single-crystal titanium. Either one worked, really.

Lips still puckered around the nail in his mouth, Tony jerked upright and spun around.

There were two types of Angry Steve, both having evac radii of about twenty miles in any direction. Steve kept himself under excruciatingly tight wraps, for the single reason that he was big and strong enough to really damage the people around him when he lost it. This made getting a rise out of him almost impossible, which to normal people was a big stop sign but to bona fide bedlamite Tony Stark was a fun challenge.

"How late?" Was the first thing out of his mouth, and he pretended not to notice when Steve's eyes widened a bit as he pulled the screw out of his mouth.

Icy Fury Steve was fucking terrifying, and that was coming from a guy who'd seen the Incredible Hulk crush Midtown like a child's toy. Icy Fury Steve spoke is soft, clipped words that resonated in his chest, had skin the color of bone and eyes that were two shades above unholy black and kept his entire body tensed like a drawn bow, emitting an aura of seething I-am-Captain-Fucking-America-and-I-can-end-you.

Then there was Broiling Rage Steve, the type of anger that wasn't cold, but a hot coal in the pit of his stomach that blurs the edges of his vision a loud red. Broiling Rage Steve had a bad habit of slipping into a slight Brooklyn brogue while he was lecturing and yelling. He kept it hidden so well that it was only after Tony had declined going to medical after his tussle with a certain wormhole that Steve had really chewed him out and he'd noticed.

Tony knew exactly which Steve he was dealing with when the answer "An hour, thirteen minutes" was softened around the edge by an unmistakable, if out-dated, Brooklyn accent into "an 'ou-ah, thirteen minutes".

"Fuck."

Steve didn't reply, arms crossed, standing half a workshop away with a very 'your-childhood-hero-is-very-disappointed-in-you' expression on his face.

Tony tried for a smile, which probably came out like a grimace, because really, this was like being stared down by Optimus Prime, you know you've messed up when the poster boy for freedom and justice is looking at you like that.

"Not as bad as Maui."

"No, not as bad as Maui." That was his Not Amused voice. Tony had recurring nightmares about that voice.

Tony ran a grease-slicked hand through his hair, suddenly acutely aware of how disgusting he must look in a Black Sabbath hoodie pockmarked with various erosions to the cloth, stains, and holes, grime over every inch of his body, unshaven, you get the picture. Cue Steve, all clean lines and perfect angles and an Under Armor shirt that was like three sizes too small and oh, come on, that just wasn't fair…

"Look, Cap-"

"No."

Tony blinked, tracking his blue-eyed interloper with his gaze as he snagged a swivel chair from one corner, lifting it easily over one shoulder, and set it down next to the workbench juxtapose Tony's current project.

Tony raised an eyebrow.

"You moved a chair. Over here. Where I don't need a chair. I'm sorry, you were expecting, what? A gold star?"

"No." Steve says again, a little less sharply, and sits down, leaning his forearms onto his thighs and looking up at Tony from under a wave of pale hair.

"Uh."

"You're teaching me French. Right now."

"Really."

"Do I have to make that an order? Are we really going to do that?"

Tony smirks, leaning against the solid flat of his workbench, folding his arms.

"Quick question. Coulson told me you asked for me specifically." Tony flicked his hand in an elaborate gesture that basically boiled down to, 'explain'.

Steve actually looked away, a glint of teeth gleaming under the halogen lights as he tugged at his lip.

Mouth still not dry, thank you ever so much.

"I don't want SHIELD teaching me," Steve replies, sighing when Tony crooks an eyebrow, "Coulson's busy enough as-is, Natasha keeps trying to set me up with a date from the agents at SHIELD who don't have more than three forged passports, and I don't trust Clint not to teach me swears and pass them off as prepositions."

Tony snorted, denying the little knot of livid envy that lit up in his chest at the thought of desk-pushing SHIELD girls in those ridiculously tight uniforms hanging off Captain America's arm. He was going to have words with Natasha. Short, obscene words.

"But here's the thing- I call bull. I ran a background check through the SHIELD servers. Bruce knows French, and he's here working on that eugenics thing until next week. JARVIS knows every damn language in the book. Darcy took four years in high school, went to France for a semester last year. SHIELD's got translators, hell, I could buy you Rosetta Stone and stick you in a supply closet for a couple days. But I mean, me? Me. Mister I-knew-men-like-that-worth-ten-of-you?"

Tony ignored Steve's wince.

"Yes, you. You notice we don't exactly get along?"

Tony forced his eyes not to flick skyward. Brilliant leader? Check. Insightful? Well…

"Might've popped up. Every once in a while. Baltimore, that was a thing, Lake Eerie, Carson City, Fargo, basically any mission we've ever had in Boston, I can keep going, I can think of like eight more off the top of my head. But yeah. We don't get along."

Steve's lips kick up.

"I don't not like you, Tony," Steve says, running right over Tony's muttering about double-negatives, and seriously, this man should be rewarded a saintdom just for that, "You're practically the only person I'd trust to give tactical orders if I went down," Ignoring the spark that jumps across Tony's eyes and the way the tendons in his arms seem to go ramrod straight against his skin, Steve plows ahead, "And between you and Clint, your jokes are almost bad enough to be funny. You've talked Bruce down more times than I really want to think about, all the Asgardians adore you, you rent out your state-of-the-art skyscraper to a bunch of walking fire hazards that can't work a can opener and stage jelly bean-launching wars over who gets the remote."

"I handle obscene amounts of insanity because I have, quick frankly, no sanity left myself. I mean- sentient trash bin minions with arms on top doing my busywork. Disembodied British voice telling me when to eat and shower. Tin can that flies and shoots lasers. Fucking Pagani Zondas lying around my lethal chemicals cabinet."

"What I'm saying is- wait. You have a lethal chemicals cabinet?"

Tony nods, scraping at the back of his neck. And no, that's not sheepishness, that's not- No. It's not.

Steve rubs the bridge of his nose.

"I'm pretending I didn't hear that. My point is there's no reason we should be at each other's throats all the time, especially if we're going to have to trust each other in the field. Ergo, French tutor."

Tony sucks in a long, deep breath. This was going to be a long night.

"JARVIS," he tips his head up, eyes closed, "Two tra thai's and the usual from that Vietnamese joint down the block. Don't triple any of the orders this time, okay buddy?"

"Certainly sir."

Tony cracks an eye open to look at Steve, still so earnest that it's practically oozing off him.

"Alright, apparently we're doing this. So. First rule of French-"

* * *

"Stop."

Tony froze, mid-twist calibrating the strut support systems with a ratchet, and set his teeth.

Steve hadn't interrupted for an hour and a half, speaking only to repeat phrases and conjugate verbs back at Tony. Frankly, he was impressed by how quickly Steve had picked up the basic framework of conversation. Steve's military unit had had a French soldier in it, and he'd told Tony that he'd learned most of what he knew from him and his translator, but rudimentary basics weren't going to fly if he met newly-escaped-from-jail Batroc and his lackeys in combat.

Tony twists and shifts his position on the floor, staring up into the intestines of his newest suit's torso. He shimmied his shoulders until he found a position he could use to tilt his head back and look at Steve with. Funny how an upside-down super soldier looked just as attractive as a right-side-up one did.

"Tony. I'm not following. You're way too technical, and half of that explanation on irregular verbs in the past tense was in French anyway. We're going to need to try something else."

Tony huffed. Huh. He didn't think he was that bad of a teacher, but the whole French rant thing was sort of a problem, yeah.

'Something else' could mean Duolingo. Duolingo sounded good.

"Fine, sure. What you got, Cap?" Tony flipped onto his stomach, reaching for his tra thai and swallowing a long pull from the straw. There was that little widening of Steve's eyes again. Tony promptly ignored it.

Steve seemed to mull that question around a bit, fork in hand and picking at the sad dregs of his pad thai in its carton.

"T'es rien qu'un connard."

Tony jerked, wide-eyed, and scrambled up from under the suit shell into a somewhat acceptable sitting position. He did a snappy translation, just to double-check he'd heard right. That… no. He must've misheard. No fucking way.

"Excuse me?"

Steve's eyes flicked up to meet his, the only indication he had heard, continuing to dig through his dinner-in-a-carton casually.

"Qu'un. Connard."

No. Fucking. Way.

Tony blinked a few times to try and save his brain from a massive meltdown.

'You really are an asshole'.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Tais-toi! Salaud." [Shut up! Bastard.]

"J'en ai marre de tes conneries. T'es un enfoiré arrogant et égoiste, hein?" [I am tired of your bullshit. You're an arrogant, self centered prick, huh?]

Tony stood up, wildfire in his expression. Steve didn't move

"Va te faire enculer, sale fils de pute de merde!" [Fuck you, piss-poor excuse of a whoreson!]

"T'es un professeur horrible et un héros pathétique." [You're an awful teacher, and a poor excuse of a hero]

"Ce n'est pas de ma faute si t'es con, ça ne m'étonne pas d'un rat de laboratoire glorifié." [It's not my fault you're fucking dumb, I should've expected that coming from a glorified lab rat!]

That got a reaction. Steve slid upright, and damn how Tony had forgotten how actually goddamn gigantic he was. Being barely five-five was never more of a curse than now. He held his ground.

"Je suis un rat de laboratoire. C'est vrai. T'as rien de spécial, toi." [I am a lab rat. I am. Nothing is special about _you_.]

Tony squared his shoulders, lining up the tips of his shoes to Steve's, barely a foot apart.

"J'en ai rien à foutre! Ta gueule!" [I couldn't give a flying fuck! Shut up!]

"T'es tellement-" [You're so full of-]

"SHUT UP!"

Tony suddenly had a fistful of Under Armor. That was new. For half a second he had no idea what to do with this new development, but then that passed and yes, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

He closed his eyes and yanked.

The thing about Captain America is, he's a literal fucking wall of muscle. A literal fucking wall of muscle doesn't do anything that a half-starved scotch-diluted sleep-deprived body yanks on it to do unless that wall of literal fucking muscle wants to. So when Steve bent under the meager force of Tony's tug on his shirt, it surprised the hell out of him.

Really, he should've thought this through more. Because he was sure that French was supposed to be reserved for language while in Steve's presence, not… well. This kind of French. And he still had the taste of Vietnamese take-out on his tongue, but that was cool, that was fine, because Steve tasted like the red pepper he put on his pad thai and warm sugar from his own tra thai and that was officially his new favorite taste, please and thank you.

Steve had to curl forward to kiss Tony, and even then he tilted his face upward after a brief moment of hesitant shock to get a better angle. That was good, too; Steve was warm, and solid, and having him bent over Tony felt suspiciously like safety. Tony slackened his hold on Steve's shirt when fingertips brushed at the corner of his jaw, down to his chin, an arm coiling around Tony's hips and okay wow, wow, more of that, please. The kiss became a tangle of teeth and tongues as Tony grew steadily more impatient, definitely more than a little greedy, pressing up and standing on tip-toe to wind his arms around Steve's neck, and no that was not embarrassing at all, nope. A little thrum of vibration ran through Steve's chest as he breathed, harsher and more shallow than normal, his air mingling with Tony's between scrapes of teeth against lips and their fingers tangling in hair.

Kissing Steve felt like… Well it felt like a lot of things. Lots and lots of things, all good. Like the broad palm resting against the small of his back, just at the dip of his spine, not pushing away or pulling him close, just there, semi-possessive and warm. That was good. So was the nearly reverent brush of Steve's mouth on his, spicy-sweet and careful. That was very good. And he was damned if wasn't going to get his absolute money's-worth on this. So when he pushes up into Steve's embrace and this would be so much easier if he was like three inches taller, canting his head and maybe-possibly-probably-definitely whimpering, that was the Plan.

Steve was not privy to the Plan. He broke away way too soon for Tony's taste, and the wash of fear of rejection that overcame him as he did was muted by a crushing weight of disappointment settling in his ribs. Tony dropped back flat on his feet, waiting for the go-ahead to pull his arms away and God Almighty did he not want to. He hadn't felt the sheer power of a good not-wanting-to since the time he'd gotten absolutely smashed in Shanghai (vodka-induced hallucinations, warbled gibberish in maybe thirteen different languages, the whole shebang) and had to catch a six AM conference in Dallas the next day.

Suddenly, something struck him.

"Was that-" Why hello, basic vocabulary, glad you could join the party. Steve kept his eyes on him as he fumbled for some sort of intelligible English other than 'wow' and 'again'. He was a post-kiss sort of gorgeous: wide blue eyes lit from within, an adorable soft flush staining his cheeks and collarbone, tugged-at and nibbled-on reddened lips, the few rebellious parts of his hair that Tony had mussed up completely on purpose sticking up- really, that was just the whipped cream on this sundae.

Tony ended up smirking.

"That was your first kiss since 1945, huh?"

Steve narrowed his eyes. The hand still hesitantly lingering at Tony's back nudged him.

"Tais-toi." [Shut up]

"Hey, I mean, you found one way to make me, congratulations, not many people can-"

Whatever words he had by that point were swallowed as Tony crashed back into a more insistent mouth slotting together with his with a little _'mph!'._

Was he smiling? He couldn't tell, didn't much want to, and as long as he could keep his knees from spontaneously melting he considered that a win. Win-win, really, if the reverberating groan that rippled across his chest could say anything about Steve's end of things.

"You," Tony manages between brilliant flashes of light and warmth called 'kisses from Steve Rogers', and he should totally stop talking. If there was ever a time it is now, Stark, make like Sebastian and _sha na na na keez zhe girl_. Guy. Whatever.

"You," Tony hears himself say again regardless, breathing hard into the space between them, hyperaware of hands that weren't his slipping across the band of skin at his tailbone that had bared itself when Tony's shirt had ridden up as he tilted upward into Steve, "Have a very talented tongue."

Tony Stark fucking loved French.


End file.
